Until the Day Arrives

by Ana Maria Machado

  It wasn’t common for a girl to learn how to read. But Manuela was different and everyone accepted it. She had arrived dressed as a boy, she knew how to shape objects out of clay, she made friends with the Indian boys. Especially with Antonio Caiubi, who had won her confidence. They talked together for hours. He told her about life in the forest — the hunting, fishing, celebrations and animals. She, in turn, spoke about crossing the wide sea, the opulence of the altars in the stone churches across the ocean, the roads with carts laden with hay passing through wheat fields and vineyards, the rolling hills covered with olive trees that promised olive oil.

  But now her friend was no longer in Amparo. As he had explained to her, the Jesuits brought boys from the Indian villages to stay for short periods. They would teach them for a while, then exchange them for other village boys, while the first group returned to their people. Then the first group would come back again, always taking turns. Thus they learned to pray and sing, studied the religious doctrine, developed the rudiments of a trade, but allowed others to have the opportunity as well. And that way they weren’t away from their families for long.

  “So you stand between the village and the town, with one foot in the hut and the other in the school,” she had said, acknowledging the benefits of the system.

  Manuela was missing him. She and Caiubi had become very attached to each other, especially when Bento was away. Even now, though Bento had returned from the mill, the young carpenter was very busy and hardly had time for her. Gradually, the girl became inseparable from Beatriz and Felipa. And when she missed male conversation, she began to talk a lot with Didi. Little black Didi, as they called him in the house.

  In the early days, the two had spoken to each other about their suffering, their pain, their sad memories. Now they were beginning to talk about their good memories and to tell the stories that they’d heard from parents and grandparents during the happy times when their families were together. Often these stories involved strange animals.

  “What is this wolf you mentioned?” the boy wanted to know.

  “Similar to a dog.”

  “And a bear?”

  “It’s much bigger.”

  “Like an elephant?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen an elephant.”

  “It’s huge. But a bear, is it like a giraffe? Or does it have stripes, like a zebra?”

  Manuela laughed. “How should I know? I don’t know what giraffes look like. I’ve never seen this zebra you’re talking about.”

  He took a stick and drew in the sand to show her.

  She laughed again. “You can’t draw. Who ever saw a long snout like that? And those big ears? And this other creature with that long, thin neck. Is it a stork? But without a beak and with four legs? It doesn’t exist!”

  “Yes, it does exist. It’s you who don’t know anything.”

  “So tell me their names. This one is a zebra?”

  “No, a zebra looks like a horse, only it has stripes. This one with the long neck is the giraffe.”

  “And the one with the big snout?”

  “That’s the elephant, the largest of all. Almost the size of that quitungo.”

  “Quitungo?”

  Manuela puzzled over the word and looked to see what Didi was pointing at. It was a kind of hut on the beach, with a simple thatched roof and no walls, where the fishermen kept their nets and trays of salted fish. Another new word. Only this one had come from Africa like Didi.

  At other times, they told stories of kings and queens. Manuela remembered tales her grandmother had told her of powerful kings, and knights who rescued princesses locked in castle towers. And Didi often had to retell the stories that Manuela loved to hear about Queen Jinga.

  “This is not a story. It’s true. And it took place not long ago,” he explained.

  It was better than any invented story — about a powerful woman, there in Luanda, in Africa, daughter of a king and sister of a prince, who led armies and defeated invaders.

  “Queen Jinga had thousands of Jaga troops, in many quilombos.”

  “Quilombo? Jaga? What are they?” Manuela puzzled over the terms. She was always learning something from Didi.

  “Jaga is a nation of fierce warriors. Soldiers. And quilombos are their camps, their fortresses. She commanded them all. She made alliances, started wars, negotiated peace treaties. Everybody respected Queen Jinga. And, if you didn’t respect her …”

  “What happened?”

  “She taught respect. My father once told me that when she went to meet the governor of the Portuguese to discuss the end of the war, he sat on a throne but didn’t offer her a seat.”

  “That certainly doesn’t show respect.”

  “Ah, but she taught him. Wait and listen to the end of the story. Queen Jinga called a slave and made the woman kneel on all fours, like a bench. Then she sat on the slave’s back and talked as equals. That taught that governor a lesson.”

  Courageous, thought Manuela. And very bold. But one detail in the story left the girl puzzled.

  “But Queen Jinga had slaves, Didi?”

  “Of course, she was a powerful queen. All powerful kingdoms enslave their enemies. My father told me that in the end, she left that slave behind. It was like saying that when you’re very rich, you don’t need to carry your bench from place to place, because the kingdom had many more slaves who could travel on their own two feet.”

  There was a lot that Manuela didn’t understand. Was Didi a slave of the Portuguese in Brazil because his people were defeated by the same king that Bento had been accused of offending in the tavern fight? What if the Portuguese had been vanquished by Queen Jinga? Then Manu and her brother might have been in Africa, living the lives of slaves as Didi was in Brazil. Separated from one another, abused and sold, having to work without ever resting.

  There were lots of questions rolling around in her head. But the girl said nothing. This subject was too painful to talk about with Didi, since there was nothing he could do to break free.

  Her friend, however, seemed to continue to think about the story he had told. After a short silence, he said, “I think she only had slaves who were former enemies that she had won during a war. Like all kings. I don’t think she captured people from far away, in the middle of the savanna, to sell to the whites’ ships to make money. My father told us something else. Many slaves who were caught by traders but managed to escape would seek out her armies. They preferred to be soldiers in the quilombos of Queen Jinga, who protected them all. And even though the whites were threatening her and demanding the slaves, she never turned them over.”

  Could it be that the slave-bench was an enemy warrior then? Manuela wondered.

  Perhaps this same idea was going through Didi’s head, mingled with his memories of freedom. Or perhaps he was missing his father, who had told him all these stories. He was silent, thoughtful. He left Manuela quietly to go back to work.

  13

  —

  Quilombo

  Sometimes we hear something for the first time and it seems to loosen a knot, because immediately after, the word starts coming up over and over again. That’s what happened with Manuela and the word quilombo. She had never heard the word before talking to Didi. But that very afternoon, she heard it again.

  Leaving the workshop for the day, Bento passed by Dona Catarina’s house to see his sister. He found her with her friends at the front door. He said something funny to Beatriz and Felipa, and laughed along with them.

  Hearing a male voice amid the girls’ conversation, the widow came out to see who it was. She welcomed Bento with a smile, asked him inside and offered him some juice from custard apples, sweetened with brown sugar.

  Suddenly, Dona Catarina asked, “Tell me something, Bento — you who have walked to Don Vasco’s mill. Have you heard anyone talking about quilombos?”

>   “Very vaguely. They say there are some in the interior that have been there for a while now.”

  “That’s all?”

  There was a little more, Bento remembered. He clearly recalled a conversation one night around the campfire near the slaves’ quarters. The flames made Rosa Chica’s eyes shine as she listened in silence to the other slaves. The boy would never forget the light puff of air that passed like a breeze over the group assembled under the stars. But he felt that to talk to Dona Catarina about this would almost be a betrayal of those who had welcomed him into their confidence. He recognized that some mysterious mutual affection was beginning to connect him to Rosa. The slaves gathered there that night were his friends. He wouldn’t reveal anything about the small treasure they were holding onto — the tiny spark of hope that lit up the night, riding on words that inspired fragile dreams of freedom. Not until their day had come.

  “Well … yes, that’s all I know. That’s what was mentioned. I once overheard a group of slaves and realized that they were talking about a quilombo, but as soon as I got close they changed the subject. I don’t know what they were saying.”

  It wasn’t much. Dona Catarina looked at him as if expecting him to say something else. Bento thought he had better cover it up a little more.

  “But it showed me that no one really believes that quilombos exist. They’re just remnants of African legends, or stories spread by bush captains and foremen to fool simpletons. I think some foremen even encourage slaves to escape so they can trap fugitives from other mills and get new slaves without having to go to auction.”

  Dona Catarina had her doubts.

  “What people are talking about here is just the opposite. They say that there are these camps called quilombos. They’re real fortresses. They say the slaves who escape search for these camps. Apparently in the middle of the forest there are whole villages inhabited by runaways.”

  She paused and then continued, “But maybe they don’t exist. Maybe you’re right. How would these runaways be able to find their way there? And how could they survive in such hostile jungles, full of poisonous beasts?”

  A slave brought in a tray with a pitcher of juice and mugs, the widow stood to serve, and the subject changed. Bento asked his sister about her work at the pottery. She showed him a small figure modeled out of leftover clay.

  “You take after your father, girl,” her brother said. “What a beautiful parrot! Maybe it’s not quite as perfect as the ceramic dove, but you’re on the right track. Do you still have the dove?”

  The girl went to get her father’s piece. Everyone admired it, and they continued to talk about the beautiful glazed tiles in Portugal and the difficulties of life in the colony. Then, when Bento said goodbye, Manuela walked with him to the fountain in the square.

  Now that they were alone, she took the opportunity to ask, “But do those quilombos really exist, brother?”

  “I think so. It seems that slaves throughout this whole region have fled there when they could.”

  “If I were a slave I would also find a way to escape,” she said decisively.

  “I don’t doubt it. You’ve already shown what you can do. But you mustn’t talk about it in front of strangers. They wouldn’t understand. First, there’s no need for others to know our background. And second, they might think we want to help slaves escape, and that’s a crime. After all, we never know what life is going to bring us.”

  He lowered his voice and added, almost secretly, “It may be that one day we will be the ones to help someone. And so it wouldn’t be good for anyone to distrust us.”

  Manuela listened to what he said in silence. She agreed with a nod.

  Bento looked her in the eyes and said, “But I’m very happy to know you’re still the same and that, if necessary, those who dream of freedom can count on you.”

  He was thinking of Rosa Chica. Manuela immediately thought of Didi.

  “You’re right.” She paused and added, “I even have some ideas to help them cope with the jungle and the poisonous animals.”

  Bento looked at her, surprised.

  “What ideas?”

  “I still need to think about them. But I have friends …”

  The girl was thinking about Antonio Caiubi, who would soon be back from his village for a new season at the Amparo Jesuit school. Lately, ideas about how to help Didi escape had been going through her mind. After her talk with him, she realized that he had been very interested in quilombos for a long time. So Manuela had brought up the matter with the Indian boy before he left and discovered that he had a good idea where the fugitives’ camps were. Since then, she had begun to think that they needed to make a plan to help Didi escape. But it was all still very vague, and she didn’t want to talk to anyone about it yet.

  “Some of the boys are your friends? That’s very good!” her brother said, interrupting her thoughts. “That helps a lot. After all, it’s hard for a girl to escape alone, or only with another woman.”

  Manuela could not know that he was thinking about Rosa Chica and her mother.

  “A girl? What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “We’ll talk another time,” was his answer. “I also need to think about it more. But pay attention to all you hear about quilombos. And don’t let on about your interest in them.”

  “Who are these women?” Manu insisted.

  “You don’t know her. It’s a friend of mine, and her mother. A beautiful girl and a lady with scars on her face. If only she had her brother around. They talk so much about this Odjidi, so dear to them … They remind me of you when I was in prison — according to what everyone said, you wouldn’t talk about anything else. But go back home now.”

  They said goodbye and Manuela went home. Her friends called her to play with them, and she ended up not having much time to be alone with her thoughts. Only later in the evening, before bed, did something else occur to her.

  But it was an idea so tenuous and fragile that she wasn’t sure how to make it work.

  14

  —

  A Meeting

  The next few weeks passed without incident, following the usual routine. Work, heat, one day after another in which Bento didn’t leave Amparo and Caiubi didn’t return from his village.

  The young carpenter was eager to return to Don Vasco’s sugar mill but hadn’t come up with an excuse. The canopy bed was delayed — Quim Carapina had to finish other furniture before he could devote himself to it. Bento worked on a design for the bed and, in his spare time, made a couple of wooden candlesticks for the mill’s chapel. Senhora Barbara had said that she’d like to have some nice ones for the altar.

  But Bento’s readiness didn’t change things much, because Quim really needed his help in the workshop. The need to deliver the large candlesticks was a good pretext to return to Amarante, but it wasn’t enough. And when the boy insisted that he had to deliver them before the feast of St. John, which would be celebrated at the mill, the carpenter said, “Then let’s ask someone else to take them.”

  Bento changed his mind and stopped trying to persuade Quim. He wanted to go back to Amarante himself, not send the candlesticks with someone else. So he tried to concentrate on his work.

  But it was true that the pieces he’d sculpted from wood were exceptional. Everyone who entered the workshop was astonished when they saw the carved candlesticks leaning against the wall in the corner. And so it was that one day Father Braz, after offering many compliments, ended up making a proposal.

  “Quim, the other day at the school we were talking after dinner. Father Olympio said that our church altar was too plain, and it would be good if we could find a way to make it more elaborate. All the priests agreed, but we weren’t sure how to proceed. None of us knows how to paint or has the time to do it.”

  “A beautiful altar is not just a matter of paint. You could have a painting in
the background, but it would be even more lovely with beautiful statues of carved wood, Father,” suggested Quim. “We can think of something.”

  “Well, that’s what occurred to me when I saw how Bento made such exquisite candlesticks. He is very skilled at woodworking. Maybe he could make an image of a saint for us.”

  “Or an entirely carved wooden altar, Father,” said Quim. “That would be a good idea. Bento is very accomplished, and he will certainly be able to make a beautiful, well-crafted piece.”

  Bento overheard the discussion and became a little confused. He liked the compliments, but he was worried about not being able to manage something so difficult. He would like to try, but did not want to be held up in Amparo when his heart just wanted more and more to go to Amarante to talk to Rosa Chica.

  He didn’t know what to say. But since Quim didn’t raise the subject with him that day, he didn’t have to say anything.

  Manuela was eager to exchange some ideas alone with Didi, but couldn’t because Beatriz and Felipa were always with her. And because she wanted to see if she could find out anything about the quilombos, she was very careful. She remembered Bento’s warning and wanted to make sure no one would suspect she was the boy’s friend, and was interested in the subject of slaves escaping and seeking refuge.

  One afternoon after lunch, when the sun was strong and everyone else in the house was resting, she decided to take a walk to the beach. On the way she met Didi, who was filling a barrel of water at the fountain. He would be taking it back to the kitchen in the house. It was very heavy — he had to do such difficult work, which was made even more punishing because of the heat.